LITMIR.BIZ

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though Leonie was the most businesslike of the three sisters. That wasn’t saying much, when you came down to it. Marcelline and Sophy had always had their heads in the clouds: dreamers and schemers and typical Noirots, typical DeLuceys.

      He smelled so clean, like the air after rain. How did he do that? Was it scent? A miraculous new soap?

      By the time they reached the ground floor, the throbbing in her ankle seemed to have lessened somewhat.

      “I think I can make do with your arm,” she said.

      “Are you sure?”

      “My ankle is better,” she said. “I needn’t lean on you quite so much.”

      The fact was, she didn’t have to lean at all, because he held her so firmly against him. She was aware of every inch of his muscled arm and—through all the layers of chemise, corset, dress, and pelerine—exactly where his fingers rested at the bottom of her rib cage.

      She let go of his neck. He let go of her waist and offered his arm. She placed her gloved hand on his, and he grasped it as firmly as he’d grasped her waist.

      She told herself this was hardly intimacy, compared to his holding her along the length of his body, but the fact was, no man had got this close to her in years. Still, that didn’t explain why she wanted to run away. She knew how to defend herself, did she not? She knew better than to let herself fall under the spell of a handsome face and form and low, seductive voice.

      She couldn’t allow panic to rule. Her ankle was only marginally better. Without help, she’d have to limp back to the shop on a hot day. Though she had only a short distance to travel, the last bit was uphill. By the time she got there, she’d have worsened the injury and wouldn’t be fit for anything.

      Business first, last, and always. As they passed through the door and out into Pall Mall, she set her mind to calculating his net worth, reminded herself of imminent wives and/or mistresses, and beat down unwanted emotions with numbers, as she so often did. Her clumsiness might well have put off Lady Clara’s companion. This might be the only new business Leonie would attract today.

      “You said something about business,” he said.

      “I did?” Her heart raced. Was she speaking her thoughts aloud without realizing? Had she suffered a concussion without noticing?

      “Before, when you hurried away to my cousin.”

      “Oh, that,” she said. “Yes. Where Lord Swanton goes, one usually finds a large supply of young ladies. He’d mentioned to one of our customers his intention of visiting the British Institution this afternoon. It seemed a good opportunity to make the shop’s work known to those unfamiliar with it.”

      “Nothing to do with his poetry, then.”

      She shrugged, and paid for it with a twinge in her ankle. “I run a shop, my lord,” she said. “I lack the romantic sensibility.” She’d worked since childhood. The young women who worshipped Lord Swanton hadn’t lived in Paris during the chaos, misery, and destruction of the cholera. Grief, suffering, and death weren’t romantic to her.

      “It stumps me, I’ll admit,” he said. “I don’t see what’s romantic about it. But then, neither do most men. The ailment seems to strike young women, with a few exceptions. Though she’s at the vulnerable age, Cousin Clara looked bored, I thought. My cousin Gladys looked sour-tempered, but that’s the way she usually looks, so it’s hard to tell whether she’s an idolater or not.”

      “Cousin Gladys,” she said. “The young lady with Lady Clara?”

      “Lady Gladys Fairfax,” he said. “Lord Boulsworth’s daughter. Clara’s great uncle, you know. The military hero. I’m not sure what’s lured Gladys back to London, though I do have an unnerving suspicion. I say, you’re not well, Miss Noirot.”

      They’d reached the bottom of St. James’s Street, and the day’s extreme warmth, already prodigious in Pall Mall, now blasted at them on a hot wind, which carried as well the dust of vehicles, riders, and pedestrians. Leonie’s head ached at least as much as her ankle did. She was trying to remember when last she’d heard Lady Gladys Fairfax mentioned, but pain, heat, and confusion overwhelmed her brain.

      “That does it,” he said. “I’m carrying you.”

      He simply swooped down and did it, before she got the protest out, and then it was muffled against his neckcloth.

      “Yes, everyone will stare,” he said. “Good advertising, don’t you think? Do you know, I do believe I’m getting the hang of this business thing.”

       Meanwhile, back at the British Institution

      Sir Roger Theaker and Mr. John Meffat, Esquire, were among the few who’d paid attention to Lord Lisburne’s departure with Miss Noirot. The pair had arrived with Lord Swanton’s coterie, but were not exactly part of it, even though they were former schoolmates of the poet.

      They were not Lord Swanton’s favorite old schoolmates, having bullied him mercilessly for nearly a year until his cousin got wind of it and thrashed them. Repeatedly. Because they were slow to catch on. They were even slower to forget.

      They’d withdrawn some paces from the crowd following Lord Swanton, partly in order to maintain a safe distance from the dangerous cousin.

      Theaker’s gaze lingered on the stairwell. Once Lisburne and the ladybird were out of sight he said, “Lisburne’s done for, I see.”

      “If anyone’s a goner, it’s the French milliner,” said Meffat. “Ten pounds says so.”

      “You haven’t got ten pounds,” said Theaker.

      “Neither do you.”

      Theaker’s attention reverted to the poet. They watched for a time the young women not-so-surreptitiously pushing to get closer to their idol, while he held forth about the Veronese.

      “Annoying little snot, isn’t he?” Theaker said.

      “Always was.”

      “Writes pure rot.”

      “Always did.”

      No one could accuse them of not doing all they could to enlighten the reading public. Before Swanton had returned to England, they’d contributed to various journals half a dozen anonymous lampoons of his poetry, as well as two scurrilous limericks. Most of the critics had agreed with them.

      But one fashionable young woman had ignored the critics and bought Alcinthus and Other Poems, Swanton’s book of lugubrious verse, and cried her eyes out, apparently. She told all her friends he was the new Lord Byron or some such. The next anybody knew, the printers couldn’t keep up with the demand.

      Since watching the little snot wasn’t much fun, Theaker and Meffat turned their attention to the unhappy artist who, having righted his easel, was trying to repair his damaged painting.

      They drew nearer to offer jocular advice and accidentally on purpose knock over items he’d carefully restored to their proper places. They suggested their own favorite subjects and argued about whether a corner of the painting more closely resembled a bonnet or a woman’s privates. Being preoccupied with tormenting somebody too weak, poor, or intimidated to fight back—their usual modus operandi—they never noticed the woman approach until she’d cornered them.

      And when she said, “I must have your help,” they didn’t laugh, as was also more usual when a person of no importance sought their aid or protection. They didn’t even make lewd suggestions, which was odd, considering she was extremely pretty—fair and slender and young. John Meffat looked at her once, then twice, then seemed very puzzled indeed. He turned an inquiring look upon his friend, who frowned briefly, seeming to be struck by something.

      Theaker shot him a warning look, and Meffat held his tongue.

      Then Theaker broke out in a kindly smile—it must have hurt his face a little—and said, “Why certainly, my dear.

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